


(Not) Right in the Head

by Anonymous



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brothers, Horny Teenagers, M/M, Masturbation, Porn Watching, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-02
Updated: 2007-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23458432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23
Collections: Anon Works





	(Not) Right in the Head

*

No self-respecting teenage guy got caught doing something girly. There was that one time about a year ago when he played Barbies with the little girl from across the street, but that was because her mom always fed him warm, gooey, made-from-scratch chocolate cake with fresh milk when he visited. Besides, once Barbie put the moves on Ken and talked about babies in Angela's squeaky voice, Sam bugged straight out of there faster than she could blink. 

Ken kinda wigged him out, anyways. Blond hair, blue eyes, Colgate-bright smile and not a tan line in sight? Just plain creepy.

Sam's not sure if this counts as girly but he's not taking any chances. The books don't look anything like his dad's--Dad reads some weird shit, but the stuff that isn't full of nightmares are westerns with rough, hard-eyed men painted all over the covers.

The small town libraries he visits can't seem to decide what these books are either. The first time he went looking for one he found them with the thrillers. That eased some of the nervous twisting in his guts. The second time, they were tucked away in a corner under a small handwritten sign that said Adult Fiction, and he'd spent a good ten minutes dodging the harpy librarian with well-aimed dimpled smiles and a hand spread over the cover.

This time, they're listed under romance. It's mid-afternoon on a Tuesday so the library is empty and the woman behind the desk is too interested in her Harlequin and the chocolates at her elbow to pay much attention to the gawky kid in row three.

Wetting his lips and taking another quick glance around, Sam scans the author's names. His heart kicks against his ribs when he finds half a row of what he wants and for a minute he's frozen in indecision. He can't check them out without raising eyebrows. Up to now he's only found one or two dog-eared copies in each town and used to just skim them for the good parts, read those handfuls of pages over and over again until he had them memorised. Then he got the hell out before he attracted too much attention.

But there's seven Andrews novels sitting right there. Waiting.

Decision made, chest tight with the thrill of anticipation, Sam grabs three and wanders casually to the Youth Fiction a few aisles over, picks up _The Outsiders_ and _Hatchet_ to distract the librarian with, and hangs around for maybe another five minutes before bringing them to the counter. The other novels are stuffed safely away in the chaos of his backpack, out of sight.

By the time Sam gets out of there, new card clutched in his fist and the taste of chocolate in his mouth, he's already hard.

He tears through the woods outlaying the north end of town, jumping rocks and tree roots with his bookbag thumping heavily against his back. Out of breath, too eager to wait any longer, he drops to the ground in a cushion of dead leaves beneath an old, gnarled tree. Back propped against it, he digs through the mess of crumpled notepaper and candy wrappers for what he's really interested in.

Angela's was the first time he saw a book like this. He'd gone to the bathroom to wash chocolate icing off his hands and there it was, sitting on the edge of the tub next to a pink disposable razor and a bottle of bubble bath. Natural curiosity made him pick it up, glance at the back cover, snort at what was written there and put it right back down again.

He took a leak since he was there, washed his hands and found his gaze sliding back to the book. The same urge that made him browse tattered newspapers at gas stations, or flip through cookbooks at the grocery store despite all of Dean's teasing, made him pick it back up again.

And he found sex.

Everything that followed was instantaneous. His heart rate picked up, his face heated; he kept checking the bathroom door expecting someone to bang on it and chew him out for reading _trash_ because this was definitely not something his stern-faced dad would approve of. 

He got hard. Really, really, excruciatingly hard. The well-worn cotton of his boxers started sticking to his cock.

He scrambled home as fast as he could, shouting apologies to Angela and her mom about being late for a family thing as he dived for his backpack and slammed out the back door. Images were burned into his brain, details dreamed up from the black words on the pages and from hearing older guys talk, from quick, furtive glances at the top shelf magazines at local corner stores.

Dad wasn't home when he got there. Dean wasn't either. He tore through the cramped little apartment to his and Dean's bedroom, kicked off his shoes and fell face first onto the bed. He clutched at his pillow and panted short, breathless noises into it as he ground himself against the mattress, sweat prickling his scalp, slick on his back. He strained for the telltale sound of boots on the front stoop, afraid of getting caught but too far gone to actually stop and shut the door. 

It didn't take long, anyway. Just a few seconds of his blood pounding in his ears and then the white-hot, searing release of pressure. He soaked the inside of his jeans, collapsed, shuddering, to the sheets, and lay there relearning how to breathe for as long as he dared. His legs were still wobbly by the time he heaved himself up for a fresh pair of underwear and stumbled to the bathroom to change.

This time, he can't go home. Their apartment is smaller, crappier than the one before, just like the smaller, crappier town, so there are less places to hang out, too. Dean spends way too much time lurking around the house. _Dicking_ around doing nothing but getting on Sam's nerves.

Sam doesn't even bother to read the back cover. Tongue pushed against the back of his teeth, he starts skimming.

*

It's close to dark when Sam comes home. The door creaks shut behind him, the apartment hanging in silence until from the kitchen comes the bang of pots and pans.

"Sammy," Dean calls, "that you?"

"Nope." Sam dumps his bookbag in the front hall, hesitating over it for a second before deciding it's safe there because Dad and Dean never pick through his school stuff. Breaking pattern by bringing it straight to their room would probably send up warning signs. If either of them paid attention, anyway. "It's that cute girl down the street that thinks you're a moron."

"Funny, she sounds just like my dork kid brother who's gonna go hungry if he don't go wash up for dinner."

Sam pokes his head through the doorway to see Dean stirring something on the stove. "What're we having?"

"Macaroni n' cheese and toast," Dean says, not turning around.

"Dad comin' home?"

"Just you and me, squirt. Go wash up."

Through the door and over the rush of water, Sam hears Dean call out to him, but he ignores it, cleans himself up quick as he can instead. The facecloth on the sink's edge gets rid of most of the come still sticky in his shorts but leaves them damp, clinging to his skin. He doesn't trust Dean to patiently wait the few extra seconds it would take him to nab a clean pair.

Dean bangs on the door and he fumbles the towel. "What're you doin' in there, Sammy? Gonna be awhile? The box stuff don't really keep, y'know."

"Nothin'!" Yanking up his pants, Sam dries his hands on the legs and paws at the lock. "Nothing, I'm coming," he says in a rush as he hauls open the door. "Man, I thought you said you were cooking."

Dean cuffs him upside the head, missing by an inch as he ducks. "If it takes turning on the stove, it's cooking. C'mon."

Two heaping plates of screaming orange noodles sit on the table, a fork jabbed into each lump, a glass of milk next to one and a beer next to the other. Sam drops himself into his usual spot and gives the bottle a meaningful look. "Where's mine?"

"You're way too young for that." Dean sits kitty-corner to him and slicks the condensation off his beer before taking a long, demonstrative pull. "Dad's gonna be gone a couple days, so I get beer and you get to stay up late."

Despite not really wanting macaroni and cheese out of a box, the first mouthful tastes good. Somehow, Dean always manages to get the noodles just right, a little firm, not crunchy. Unlike the time Sam tried and they ended up with noodle mush. "How about you stay up late and I'll have the beer?"

"Yeah, when you've got more than peach fuzz on your face."

"Jerk."

"How was school, you stay late for something?"

"Huh?"

Dean shovels more noodles into his mouth and talks around them. "You got home pretty late, I was wonderin' where you were."

"Oh. Sorry." Heat creeps up the back of Sam's neck. Dean's got no reason to suspect, but Sam's insides are squirming. "I was at the library. Had to get some books."

"Good books?"

"Nothing you'd like." Which is a total lie. Sam's got the feeling Dean would like the bits and pieces Sam reads just fine, if he ever got through with making fun. "School stuff. Literature with meaning."

"You readin' Shakespeare already? Didn't think they started you in on that shit 'til high school at least."

"Here." Nervous about Dean's sudden curiosity, Sam goes into the hall to tug out his cover-up books and hand them over. "Did you read these in school?"

Dean looks them over, licking a bit of fake cheese off his lip. "Read this one about the gangs," he says. "Read some of it out loud to you a couple times, too, you don't remember?"

After taking a closer look at the cover, Sam shakes his head. He only picked it out because he saw some other students carrying it around.

"Yeah." Dean grins. "Dad got pretty pissed. Said you were too young for that shit."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Figures."

"Yeah," Dean says again. He doesn't say anything else for a long moment, then, "Hey, here," and nudges the beer bottle in Sam's direction. "Have a swig. But you backwash into my beer, squirt, and I'll wedgie you so hard you'll be picking threads out of your teeth for a week."

The beer tastes pretty bad and Dean's face nearly splits in half with a grin when he sputters. He steals another gulp.

*

The next day is Saturday. Sam wakes up late to an empty apartment and shuffles from the bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen on autopilot. There's a box of open cereal and a scribbled note on the table.

_Back by lunch. D._

The last bit of sleep clinging to Sam's brain evaporates. The clock on the stove says he's got at least an hour and a half until Dean gets back. He shoves a few handfuls of dry imitation Fruit Loops in his mouth and jogs for the bathroom, still chewing and shedding clothes on the way.

His shower's a blur of soap and water. _Privacy_ runs through his head, over and over on an endless loop. _Privacy privacy privacy._ He hauls a clean tee over damp skin, drops onto his bed and doesn't give a shit about his wet hair soaking through the back of it.

Yesterday he managed to stick to one book. Which means he's got the whole weekend with Dad gone and Dean hopefully finding something else to do somewhere other than here to read the other two.

Right now, he's pretty much the textbook definition of giddy.

Randomly choosing one of the two books left, Sam settles onto his back, knees up and legs spread. He's already halfway hard, but there's no way he's ruining this chance. He starts skimming through the book too fast, skipping chunks of chapters instead of paragraphs, and has to force himself to slow down so he doesn't miss a thing.

It's the longest fifteen minutes of his life before he finds something worth stopping for. 

Girl in the shower. Someone, a guy, letting themselves into the bathroom, casually. They talk and it doesn't make much sense without the backstory. Spike of tension, spike of Sam's heartbeat, words skimming by too fast and then it's a struggle, a fight, the girl doesn't want it this time, she feels dirty, she's-

Sam freezes, breath caught in his throat in a choking lump.

She's his sister.

He drops the book, losing his page. It takes his sputtering brain a few minutes to get past the rape spelled out in front of him to figure out that's not why his chest is tight or his gut is twisting.

 _This time_. The girl didn't want to have sex with her brother _again_.

Cautiously, bottom lip caught between his teeth, Sam picks the book back up. He's running out of time but he wants to know. Suddenly needs to. He goes back over the first chunk of the novel, skipping from sentence to sentence, word to word. Searching for concrete evidence that they didn't know beforehand.

The front door bangs open before he has a chance. He scrambles for his jeans, hauling them on roughly over bare skin, squirming uncomfortably without something between him and the denim. He hesitates, jeans still unbuttoned.

Time's up. Dean's in the hallway, singing out, "Hey, Sammy, you up yet?" and muttering about lazy kids while Sam jams the paperbacks under his mattress, plunking his ass right down on top of them just as Dean appears in the doorway.

"Hey," Dean says, "up and showered and dressed and everything. Awesome. You can help make sandwiches for lunch, I'm fucking starving."

Sam stares. He can't help it. Dean's standing there, almost seventeen years old and made of everything Sam doesn't have. Lean, sun-browned muscle and a confident swagger, experience with girls and engine grease under his nails. Sam's never thought about this before because being a Winchester has nothing to do with knowing this brand of wrong, but he wants to know if maybe, if maybe he's wondering what having sex with Dean would be like.

Dean frowns.

"Sammy, you alright?"

"Yeah," Sam croaks. He clears his throat and in a voice closer to normal says, "Yeah, still half asleep. Hungry too."

"Sandwiches, kiddo. Piled high with the good stuff. Breakfast of champions."

Sam gets up slowly, barely managing to hide a wince when his bare cock, heavy and full and obviously still on board with the aborted plan, rubs up against the inside of his jeans. His shirt hangs big enough on him that he doesn't think Dean will notice.

His shirt that's too big, ragged at the hem, worn down and incredibly soft because it used to be Dean's.

He somehow makes it down the hallway without creaming his pants. The kitchen is tiny, cramped, barely enough space to open the fridge around the rickety table in a long line of rickety tables Dad always insists on having, because his boys are going to sit down and eat a proper meal at the table, not in front of the television. The close air stinks of Dean, sweat and skin warmed by sharp, late-fall sunshine, cars and leather and dirt. 

Dean touches his shoulder to move him out of the way. Sam blurts, "I gotta go. Be right back, don't forget the lettuce, I'll just be a sec," and rips down the hallway to the bathroom, breathing hard and scrabbling at the front of his jeans as soon as the door slams shut behind him.

He barely touches his cock before he's coming. Hard, thick pulses of sticky warmth floods over his fingers, drips from his knuckles. He hardly ever does it this way because he likes a couple of layers between his dick and whatever he's rubbing off on. Skin-on-skin's just way too fast, too intense, feels like his body's cheating him out of the fun.

Sliding down the door to sprawl out on the old tile, Sam fights to get his breath back. He's got to clean up, calm down and get back out there before Dean comes barging in thinking he's sick again and just won't tell anyone.

Predictably, when he does stumble back to the kitchen, the first thing Dean asks is, "You okay?"

"Fine," Sam gulps. The flush he'd managed to get under control creeps back beneath Dean's steady gaze. "I, uh."

"You, uh?"

"I-"

"Sammy," Dean says, all salacious smiles and glittering green eyes. "I interrupt something?"

"No!"

"You sure? 'Cause y'know, if you ever want a little private time to beat off, all you gottta do is say. I'm a caring, compassionate older brother-" this said with an alligator's grin "-last thing I wanna do is end up cockblocking you."

"I wasn't," Sam insists, forgetting all about how he's learned to lie to cops and teachers and everyone _except_ Dean, because he's never had to before, he gives in to the instinctual deny, deny, _deny_.

"You weren't." 

"I don't-"

Dean cocks an eyebrow. "Ever?"

"Dean!"

"You need me to show you, Sammy? Because I would've figured you'd work it all out on your own, smart as you are."

"Dean, god, shut up!"

Chortling in that obnoxious older-brother way, Dean hooks an arm around his neck and hauls him in for a half-hug, half-noogie. "Just teasin' ya, squirt. But seriously, just say the word and-"

Sam draws off and awkwardly nails him in the shoulder.

Dean just laughs again. "You want milk to drink, or juice?"

Grumbling, Sam sits. "I think you owe me a beer."

"Well, Sammy." Dean pours two glasses of bright red Kool-aid and sets them down by their plates. "If you're not old enough to jerk off, then you're not old enough for beer."

*

Dean leaves again a couple hours after lunch and tosses off some casual comment about coming back and finding Sam with his jeans around his ankles. Sam laughs, _ha-ha_ , and glares stony-eyed at the television until the thud of Dean's boots on the close-packed dirt sidewalk fades away.

He's too weirded out to take advantage of having the place to himself this time. Not finding out how or even _why_ what happened in the book happened is driving him nuts. He's not even sure if he really wants to know. It could just be like any other time when it's only the fact that he doesn't know that's bothering him--it happens a lot when Dad goes hunting by himself. He never tells them anything, just gives an approximation of when he'll be back and Sam spends the entire time coming up with worse and worse scenarios. 

Kinda like he's doing now. 

And if Dad ever does tell, then Sam wishes he hadn't.

So he tries mindless channel surfing, picking at the loose threads on the cushion he's leaning on. The steady stream of Saturday afternoon made-for-television movies helps him reach some sort of blank zombie state where the only thing he's thinking about are the pictures being fed straight into his brain.

Dean comes back in the middle of some disaster flick where the hope of what's left of the world rests on the shoulders of a geeky wonder and his slapstick sidekicks. He hovers behind the couch, watching the low-budget action for a few minutes before something heavy drops into Sam's lap.

"You better not let Dad find that, Sammy, or you'll be in deep shit."

"Did you buy me beer?" Sam asks, even though he can tell it isn't. Besides, there's still half a six-pack in the fridge. The brown paper bag crinkles as Sam picks it up. He casts a wary look back but Dean just clears his throat and motions for him to go on. 

Inside, held in a tight roll by a rubber band, are a couple of glossy skin magazines.

"Holy shit."

Rounding the couch, Dean plops down beside him and takes the magazines from his loose grasp. "Got you two speeds here, Sammy--your lots of tits and artsy-fartsy camera angles and your, well, wouldn't call it hardcore but we're talking a good bit more detail. I figure we should start you off slow, since you're new to getting your rocks off." He flicks through the pages while Sam gapes at him, fish out of water. "Try to keep it down to a couple times a day or you'll be walking funny."

Dean holds out the mags. Sam keeps trying to figure out how the hell to talk.

"Well, c'mon, have a look," Dean says, and waves them under Sam's nose.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam hisses. "What the hell?"

"Language, Sammy."

"Porn!" Sam shouts, because that explains it all.

"Seriously." Dean glances at the two magazines again, debating for a moment before dropping one on the coffee table. He flips through the pages, appreciative light in his eyes, and plunks it down, open to a two-page spread, on Sam's lap. "See what I mean about detail?" he asks.

Every muscle in Sam's body snaps taut. He can see _everything_. Everything. Some things he's not sure he wants to see but they're _there_ in high gloss, peeking out from between Dean's wide fingers where he's holding the book open. Heat seeps through the pages, heat and pressure and Sam's cock is blindingly, achingly full.

Dean leans back, smug. "You gonna lose it right here?"

Sam stumbles to his feet, body throbbing, head spinning. He snatches the mags and clutches them in a death grip. "I- you're a fucking _jerk_ ," he spits, and runs flat out for the bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind him.

The books hit the floor. Dizzy, he gulps for air that's free of Dean's smell but it's useless, it's like Dean's all over him. He drags in deeper breaths through his nose, tries to stop and can't because the entire _room_ smells like Dean. Dean's bed is right there, sheets tangled and slept in, and he knows exactly what he's going to do seconds before he takes the first step.

His jeans follow the books with a quiet whump. His socks next, no boxers because he never got around to changing after lunch. He slides onto Dean's bed, pushes his face into the pillow and breathes in the heavy smell of sleep lingering on it, soap and sweat and Dean. Pushing up long enough to strip off his shirt, Sam stretches back out, nothing between his skin and Dean's sheets and it's electric, incredible. It's like nothing he's ever felt.

He twists his fingers in the fitted sheet, pulling it free of the mattress. Dean can probably hear him through the paper-thin walls, hear every noise he tries to muffle, ever creak of the bedsprings. Sam tells himself he doesn't care when he knows he does but not in the way he should.

He's spread out naked in his brother's bed humping the sheets because it's the closest he's ever going to get and he _wants_ Dean to hear him.

By the time he gets his breath back, he's hard again. His come saturates the sheet beneath him and all he can do is start all over again, grabbing at the headboard for leverage and rubbing in the sticky mess of it, muscles flexing, tensing, blood pounding desperately through his veins. It's just as intense the second time around, his entire body shaking with it, still shaking long after he's wrung out and empty.

Which is right about when he really starts to think about what he's just done.

Something like disgust coats the inside of his mouth. He rises slowly, unsteadily cleans himself off with the edge of a sheet and resolutely ignores the sharp sting of pleasure when he tugs it down his dick. Finding his clothes takes longer than it should. He remembers boxers this time because there's no way he can go without. 

He bundles Dean's sheets into a tight little ball and wraps them in his own. At the door, arms full, he pauses, breathes, but it doesn't help so he just marches out with his face burning and sweat-damp hair sticking to the back of his neck.

Dean is kicked back on the couch looking relaxed and cool. Sam marches straight past him and through the kitchen, into the tiny alcove where the ancient washer and dryer sit. 

He's dumping powdered detergent into the machine when he feels Dean standing behind him.

"Make that much of a mess, did you?"

"No."

"But you did it, right?"

The odd note in Dean's voice makes Sam turn halfway around. "Why're you so interested, huh?"

Dean shrugs, nothing but careless again when he says, "Figured if you weren't gonna need 'em, you could give 'em back. Worked pretty good for me."

Images of Dean punch into Sam's brain. Dean browsing top-shelf magazines at the cornerstore, picking out what he wants to show his baby brother; Dean naked looking at the same ones, getting off, fisting his cock and making the same noises Sam didn't try hard enough to hide; Dean in bed doing it all on the same sheets Sam just crammed into the washer.

Involuntarily, Sam's hips jerk, blood rushing down, pouring into his cock like a dam's busted inside him, swelling him thick and hard and desperate all over again. He slams the washer's lid down and sags over it, trapped between Dean's messed up good intentions and his own sick little mind.

"Sam?" Tentatively, Dean's fingers brush his shoulder. "Honestly, Sammy, you're not embarrassed about it? I wouldn't've given them to you if it was wrong or anything. Dad might think you're a little young, maybe, but I was lookin' at-"

"I'm okay," Sam grits out, shrugging off Dean's hand before something worse happens. "Really, I'm okay. I'm gonna- I'll be back for dinner, okay?" Grudgingly, he turns around, knowing it's the only way he's gonna get out of this. "I'll be back by five."

Dean looks unsure but says, slowly, "Okay. Five."

Sam gets the hell out of there as fast as he can without sending Dean into brother panic mode all over again, and ends up two blocks away behind the tiny cement bathrooms in the playground jerking off fast and furious to the feel of Dean's hand through his shirt.

*

Hours later Sam makes the beds and crawls into his, barely remembering the rest of the evening. Dean's still awake, draped lazily on the couch watching something loud and obnoxious. Determined to sleep, Sam flops over onto his belly, stuffs his head under the pillow and doesn't think.

Except he does. He thinks a _lot_. Before he knows it, he's wiggling around to dig the abandoned book out from underneath his mattress and thumbing through the pages by flashlight.

He doesn't so much read the words on the pages as he just sees them. There's too much going on in his head for him to concentrate enough to skim properly. When it comes to reading the actual story, he doesn't have a speck of interest. 

The porn is still right where he left it, dropped in a heap by the door. He thought maybe Dean would take it back, but it looks like it hasn't even been touched. 

A twisted mix of reluctance and excitement makes Sam feel almost ill as he edges out of bed to retrieve them.

Some of the pictures are just plain weird. Strange angles, costumes, things Sam's not sure why anybody could find sexy. The close-ups, for one. At least until he finds one where it's the girl all spread open, ready to be fucked ( _fucked_ echoes in his head in Dean's voice, rough and vulgar) and a good half of the photo is taken up by the guy.

Or honestly, by the guy's dick.

Sam snaps the mag shut and lets it fall. It's not like nothing in there turned him on; he got a little hot, more than a little interested down south, but it wasn't like the throbbing, suffocating feeling he'd had earlier this afternoon. Not like when Dean was there, watching him.

"Oh, god."

No. Flat out no. It's not happening again. Ever. He's bringing those stupid books back to the library and never looking at any of them ever again. 

It won't do him any good, though. The idea's lodged in his head, _nested_ there squawking obscenities at him like some sort of perverted harpy, and all he can think about is what it would be like if it weren't Dean's sheets he wrapped himself in, but Dean.

Inside his loose boxers, his cock jerks, smears hot, wet precome on his skin. He rolls out of bed, panting hard, stumbles down the hall to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. When he surfaces, water spattering his old sleepshirt, he realises he can't hear the television anymore, not even the sounds of Dean moving around. He thinks about slipping back to bed and can't do it, drawn instead to the flicker of light and the low, tinny noises coming from the living room.

On the television screen is a tangle of naked bodies and on the couch is Dean, long legs spread wide and a strong, wide hand wrapped tight around his cock. He jerks it slow and easy, the head catching the artificial light, glistening in it. He's not wearing a shirt anymore, clutching it in his other hand, knuckles gone white.

Sam's mouth is dry. He's pretty sure his heart's stopped beating and his pulse has relocated to his groin. 

He should sneak away. Go back to bed, close his eyes, pretend this weekend never happened. He didn't even dream it, it just never, ever happened. 

Instead, he hears himself rasp, "Thanks for turning it down."

Dean's head snaps up. "Jesus, Sammy," squeezes out of him in a strangled groan. He lets go of his cock and Sam's gaze jumps back to it, gets stuck there. "Thought you were asleep."

"Nope." Sam works up some spit to wet his lips, swallowing a couple times to get the scrape out of his voice. "You stopping?"

In the background, the movie keeps playing, the girl whimpering and moaning and neither one of them paying much attention to her no matter how loud she gets.

"Keeping you awake?"

"Sorta." Sam inches a little closer, widening his view of Dean's lap, the tense muscles of his thighs where he's shoved his jeans down, the heavy weight of his balls propped up on the elastic of his shorts. "Are you gonna let me see this, too?"

He doesn't mean the porn but Dean doesn't know that. Can't know that Sam's not as interested in seeing some girl get fucked. But when Dean looks back up, there's something in his eyes that makes Sam a little less sure.

"You wanna jerk off with me, Sammy?"

There's no right answer to that. Sam searches for something vague to say, anything really, to keep him from having to state yes or no outright. Before he can, Dean says, "C'mon, sit down."

Which is a monumentally bad idea. "I don't think-"

"Don't worry about it." Dean motions him closer, spit shining wetly in the curve between his thumb and forefinger from where he'd been tugging at his cock. "C'mere."

Like a puppet dancing on its strings to the tune of Dean's voice, he perches on the edge of the couch cushions and settles back only after Dean grinds him down with a steady, expectant stare. 

Dean picks up the remote to start fast-forwarding. "Blowjobs are better than this, you'll see."

Sam rubs his palms dry on his boxers, skin feeling tight, itchy. He steals furtive glances at Dean's lap, follows the thicker, darker trail of hair leading down over his belly to his cock. Sam's fingers twitch with the urge to scratch through it.

"Here we go," Dean says, tossing the remote aside and easing deeper into the cushions. He stretches his arms out, slinging Sam a lazy grin. "Well c'mon, let's see it." Sam hesitates, Dean insists, "Pull it out."

Deep breath in, slow breath out. Gingerly, Sam reaches inside his clothes, cups cock and balls both and draws them free, mimicking Dean by tucking just the waistband of his boxers down. He's so hard now he actually hurts. 

Unashamed, Dean sizes him up. "Not bad, Sammy."

Sam bites at the inside of his mouth to keep from blurting the obvious because Dean doesn't need that sort of encouragement and neither does he. He gives a jerky nod instead and focuses on the action.

It turns out to be pretty hot because it's not about the girl at all, just her mouth and the thick cock shoved into it. He flitters from thought to thought like a demented butterfly, hand just resting over his dick, afraid one firm touch will finish him off: his cock in the girl's mouth, then Dean's; her kneeling in front of the couch, switching off, moaning just like she is now about having the taste of both of them on her tongue, then she's out of the picture entirely and it's _Dean_ in his head dirty-talking about the taste of his cock and he groans, low and ragged.

"Knew you'd like that."

Sam's gaze leapfrogs back to Dean, down to his cock. He's still working it slowly, playing with the foreskin, pulling it down and pushing it back up again. His thumb smears through the precome at the slit and he lifts his hand, runs his tongue right over it. 

"Better when it's wet," he says, like he's actually teaching Sam how to do it. Then, "Look at this," and Sam tears away, looks back to the movie.

He's glad the sound is down because it makes it easier to block out the crappy music, strain instead for the tiny puffs of Dean's breath and the muffled slap of flesh as he speeds up, slows down. Sam watches him more than the television, trying to be subtle about it and realising he's failing miserably only when Dean abruptly lets go of his cock again and reaches across the small space between them.

"Not really participating here, are ya?" He picks up Sam's hand--picks up Sam's _hand_ with the one that'd been on his _dick_ \--and curls it firmly around Sam's cock beneath his own. "Give it a couple tugs," he says. Without waiting for any sort of go ahead, he pulls slow and easy on Sam's cock with Sam's own hand and pleasure spikes, Sam's done for, exploding into a thousand tiny raw sparking nerve endings as come smears over their fingers.

When he comes down, chest heaving, Dean is still watching him. "Thought you got off earlier, kiddo."

"Did," Sam gasps, muscles twitching with the aftershocks, with the weight of Dean's eyes on him. "I did."

"Yeah, how many?"

"God."

"How many?"

"Twice, Jesus, twice."

"Yesterday?"

Sam's head lolls on the back of the couch, his eyes sliding shut to shield against the way Dean looks at him. "I don't know, three or four. Not sure."

"Well hell, Sammy."

Dean finally lets go, pausing with his own hand hovering in the air right above Sam's lap. He grunts quietly and slides it under Sam's shirt, presses it flat and come-smeared to Sam's belly. "Guess that makes it really impressive you shot your load so hard, then. Pretty hefty for a kid."

With Dean's hand burning into him, all Sam can think to say is, "You didn't."

"Not yet." Dean pushes further up then drags his hand free, settling it easily over his cock with Sam's come still clinging to it. "You wanna watch?"

Sam's breath rattles in his lungs. "No," he says, "no." He slides up to his knees, across the seat, closer. He's not sure how to say what he wants, not even sure how he could want it to begin with, but Dean gets it. One jerk of Dean's chin and Sam's boxers are shoved down and he's slipping into Dean's lap, knees on either side of his spread thighs, arms over his shoulders, hands gripping tightly at the threadbare upholstery. There's not really enough room for Dean's bulk and Sam's long, gawky limbs but it's not like either of them cares.

He hovers a few inches away from skin against skin, uncertain. Dean's hand slides under the back of his shirt, tugs it up and off. His hand comes back, pressed palm-flat and fingers-splayed between Sam's shoulder blades. He makes sure he's got Sam's attention before he pushes down, closes that little bit of heated space between them. The noise Sam hears himself make doesn't even sound human.

"This how you like it?" Dean asks, and it's a stupid question because Sam doesn't have a clue how the hell he likes it. Except he _does_ like this, the slide of his skin against Dean's raising the hair on the back of his neck like static electricity, the heat, the smell, the feel of Dean's cock digging into his belly. So maybe it's not so stupid after all. "Gonna get off again, aren't ya?"

"Dean-"

"You kiss?"

Something prickles its way down Sam's spine. "What?"

But this time, Dean says, "Kiss me," and Sam tries to not let himself think about it. He leans forward and puts his mouth on Dean's, mashing together all he's read and seen and done before to try and make it right. 

Under his, Dean's lips curve. "Almost," he says, and drags the warmth of his tongue over the seam of Sam's lips. "Always thinkin' too hard," he adds, putting a hand to Sam's jaw and opening Sam's mouth to let himself in. 

It's hot, wet, not gentle like the times Sam has kissed a girl or clean like he's seen on primetime. It's Dean's tongue in his mouth, licking at his teeth, feeding him pure molten heat that pours straight into his gut. 

Absently, Dean murmurs, "Hard again," and shifts Sam on his lap to bring their cocks flush together. Sam jerks, spurred on by Dean's echoing groan to lick at his tongue when it dips back in, following when he pulls away to do it again. He's started now and he doesn't want to stop, jumping from the first hit to addict in minutes. 

"Here's what you're gonna do," Dean says. His hands slide down, one hooking on Sam's hip and the other still going until it's curved warm and firm over Sam's ass, fingers digging in. Sam doesn't know what the hell to make of that, his brain shorting out as soon as he gets to _it feels good_. "You're gonna rub off on me. You're gonna stay right where you are and hump my dick until you get us both off. Work for you?"

"Yeah. God, yeah, okay."

Dean's hips lift. "Go for it, Sammy."

He's awkward at first, heat creeping up his neck as Dean just watches, spread out under him, waiting. There's nothing familiar about any of this. Dean's hard in places and harder in others, sharp angles and flat planes that Sam doesn't fit against. He shifts, searching, feels stupid for winding his arms tighter around Dean's neck but Dean moans softly and hitches up against him. His mouth pressed to the soft, thin skin below Dean's ear gets the same reaction and Sam goes with it, puts his mouth on Dean anywhere he can reach and just rocks against him, into him.

Then Dean starts talking, little things like, "That's it, Sammy, right there, keep goin'," whispered in heavy breaths into the heavier air. "Gonna finish us both, fuckin' killing me."

Sam tries to hold back, hardly gets as far as realising he wants Dean to lose it first but it's no good, he's got the taste of Dean in his mouth and the feel of Dean all over him, knows that when Dean comes it's going to smear between them, that their cocks will be covered in it, and he falls straight over the edge into dizzying, body-wracking waves. 

By the time he opens his eyes again, he's limp in Dean's grasp. Dean's doing all the work now, just holding him close and grinding against him, come slicking the way as his cock rolls over Sam's damp belly. Foreskin catches and tugs and Sam can _feel_ it when Dean's about to come. Every muscle goes tight, Dean's head falls back to bare the slick line of his throat. Sam dives for it, licks and sucks up the taste of salty skin as Dean's cock twitches, pulsing thickly against him.

Barely a handful of seconds pass before Dean tips them both off the couch, arms around Sam as a cushion, and then Dean is on hands and knees above him. Sticky strings of come stretch and snap between them, reform into tiny droplets shivering on Dean's skin before they drip onto his.

"You've wanted that all day, haven't you," Dean says, piercing straight though the warm, muddled haze in Sam's head. His eyes skip to the spent mess of Sam's cock and back up again, that look on his face like when he's piecing together a hunt and it just clicks. "Since yesterday. You've been so fucking jumpy since yesterday."

Sam drags in a couple of lung-stretching breaths. Deny, deny, deny isn't gonna work for him now, not when something else is written all over him in their drying come. 

But he's not above hedging, so he gives that a shot. "Maybe."

One of Dean's eyebrows wings up. "Longer?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know." He doesn't know if something like this could just come out the blue like that. All it takes is one little sentence in one little book and suddenly he's hard for his brother. "I guess so?"

"Pretty serious stuff."

Cold dread horns in on the glow running like a current under Sam's skin. "You didn't have to," he says. "Not like I fucking made you- made you _jizz_ all over me."

"Actually," Dean murmurs, "you kinda did."

"I-" Sam snaps his mouth shut for a minute and thinks. "What about you?"

"What about me? I'm cool with jizzing all over you."

There's the obvious issue with that statement that Sam could point out. As issues go, it's a doozy. But as it is, he tries, "Seriously?"

"You're a little scrawny, but we already burned that bridge, don't ya think?"

"You're gonna freak out tomorrow. 'Cause Dean, this is _incest_." He hadn't meant to say that but it's the catalyst for everything he's been lugging around for the past two days to spill free. "I'm not sure about you, but the idea that I get off hard, I mean, really, really _hard_ thinking about, I don't know, sucking your dick, it's a little freaky. And okay, you're giving me this really funny look and don't ask me to do it right _now_ , God, Dean."

"You done?"

"No!" Sam shouts, waving his arm and feeling pretty ridiculous about it in this position but also completely unable to stop.

"You said you wanted it."

"I'm obviously a very disturbed child!"

Dean winces and starts to crawl off of him. Guilt as heavy as a boulder thuds onto Sam's chest. Backpedaling for all he's worth, hand shooting out to grab Dean's shoulder, he says, "Wait a minute. Just, wait."

"What?"

Sam licks his lips and tries to ignore how his insides flutter when Dean's gaze slides down to his mouth. It doesn't do much good so he says fuck it and lets them flutter all they want. "You uh, you wanted to?"

Dean rolls his eyes. 

"Shut up. So, uh." God, Sam sucks at this. He's got one side of his brain shouting things like TABOO and INCEST and DON'T FUCK WITH FAMILY SHOULDN'T BE LITERAL ADVICE at him, and the other side is fairly calmly laying out reasons why it's a perfectly good idea, who decides what's taboo, anyway (which, by the way, is a dumb word), and obviously, _obviously_ , some people don't believe in ghosts either and they're incredibly, amazingly, _stupidly_ wrong. 

So.

He's established a pretty firm basis for a good few years of denial.

"Okay," Sam says.

"Okay?"

"Yeah, okay. Cool with the um, the sex."

A tiny, tiny quirk at the corner of Dean's mouth. "You call that sex, huh?"

Despite the sex, apparently questionable nature aside, Sam gets the feeling not much is going to change because he's annoyed with Dean already. "Yes."

Dean makes a show of considering it. "Guess I'll let it pass this time. When d'you want to get started on the cock-sucking?"

Instinctively, Sam tries to curl in on himself, his battered system in no way prepared for the flash-fire lust sparked by hearing Dean say that. Maybe he really should cut back on the reading or something because his imagination is way too productive. 

"I guess that means not tonight." Dean leans down, mouthing softly at the side of Sam's neck, touching nowhere else but there with his lips. "I can live with that."

"Give me, uh," Sam loses his train of thought on a shiver, thinking about batting Dean away to get it back on track and realising about half a second later that batting Dean away is the absolute last thing he ever wants to do. "Maybe we could sleep for a bit first?"

Hardly distracted, Dean says, "We could."

"In my bed?"

Dean pulls back. "Why your bed? I like my bed."

"'Cause I might've-" Really, there's no _easy_ way to say it, so Sam just spits it out. "I might've jerked off on yours this afternoon. A couple times."

A whole smorgasbord of facial expressions twist Dean's features in the space of a heartbeat. He finally settles on something that might be grudging appreciation. "Your bed. You can flip the mattress tomorrow."

Dean heaves himself up, snorting at Sam's upraised hand but clasping his arm anyway, dragging him to his feet. He's only a little wobbly. Maybe if it were somebody else, he'd find it excruciatingly embarrassing, just like he finds continually knocking his knees and elbows against desks and chairs at school mortifying, but Dean just grins and steadies him.

"Leave your clothes," Dean says, shucking the rest of his own. Sam stares, and stares, and hears the voice of Dean in his head cracking jokes about taking pictures. But Dean out here, the one that counts, soaks up the attention like grass in the sunlight. "You won't need 'em."

Throat drying up all over again, warmed from the inside out and still a little dazed by the afterglow, Sam nods. All he really has to worry about now is getting that book out of sight before Dean can find it.

End


End file.
